


Heavy

by sneaqui



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneaqui/pseuds/sneaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Guilt is a word too weighted with Catholic meaning to describe what Eames feels. He would more accurately describe it as an imbalance. A tilting of some cosmic part of him that, by its very nature, is supposed to stay level.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>An Eames character study. Written for <a href="http://insearchtion.livejournal.com/">insearchtion</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy

He’s just a kid. No older than twenty-two or twenty-three. His skull’s not even properly fused, and there are acne scars sprinkled across his forehead like a belt of stars. He’s hunched over a rickety wooden table in a sidewalk cafe in Athens, ripping apart a whole roasted chicken and shoving flaky bits of flesh into his mouth with trembling fingers. A small posse of stray cats has gathered around his table, watching him intently and waiting for him to make a mistake.

Eames slides into the chair across the table from him while he’s peering nervously over his shoulder, attempting to keep an eye on his back and therefore not paying attention to his front.

The kid turns his head back around, sees Eames, and inhales his mouthful of chicken. He stops breathing for a moment and then starts coughing so loudly that he scares away the cats.

Eames grabs an olive from the shallow bowl in the middle of the table, pops it into his mouth and waits for him to collect himself.

Once the kid stops choking, he grabs his bottle of Coke off the table and gulps down half of it. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks up at Eames from underneath bushy blonde eyebrows and says, still panting slightly, “Are- are you gonna kill me?”

Eames considers the question as he chews. “I’ve never understood why people ask that question,” he muses. “It’s not as if I’m obligated to tell you the truth.” He spits the olive pit into his palm, tosses it into the street. “I gather from your reaction to my presence that you know who I am?”

The kid nods carefully. “You’re Mr. Eames,” he says, his voice tinged with fear and deference.

Eames smirks, small and crooked, and he sits up in his seat a bit straighter. “I didn’t realize you younger lot knew me.” He flourishes his hand, gesturing for the kid to continue. “Go on. What else do you know about me?”

The kid’s eyelids flutter, and his lips shake. “I know that you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty.”

Eames nods deeply in agreement. He catches movement with the corner of his eye and turns his head to see one of the stray cats beginning to creep back towards their table. He reaches over and snags of bit of meat from the kid’s plate, tosses it at the cat’s feet where it’s devoured immediately.

Eames takes a deep breath and grabs another olive from the bowl. “I’m considering killing you. Mostly to ensure that you never work in this business again. You’ve killed five people and put seven in the hospital with your stupidity. Or malice. I haven’t yet decided which.”

The kid stares down at the carcass on his plate and jogs the ball of his foot up and down on the pavement. His knee knocks into the leg of the table and causes the whole thing to shudder. He mutters, “I had to get rid of it.”

Eames leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest. “And why is that?”

It’s a pity. Eames always hoped that he would make it to a half century before he turned into his father. But here he is, frowning and crossing his arms in disapproval. He was on the other side of a similar conversation a mere ten years ago. Of course, he was a couple years older than this kid before he killed anyone.

The kid pokes at the skeleton in front of him, locates the wishbone and yanks it off the spinal column, twists it in his hands. “I needed the money.”

“So you did a quick, half-arsed job and unloaded it as quickly as possible.” Eames reaches across the table for another olive. “I’m surprised you were able to produce a viable compound while under that much stress. Semion Mogilevich is not known for his patience.”

The bone breaks between the kids’ fingers. His left hand gets its wish. “How do you know about that?”

Eames shrugs. “I know a man that knows... everything.” He grinds the bare olive pit between his back molars. “How much do you owe him?”

“Ninety five.”

“Thousand?”

“No. Hundred,” the kid scoffs, sarcastic. The last gasp of the young and prideful.

Eames darts his tongue out to lick the corners of his lips. “You know, they’re going to kill you anyway. Simply for embarrassing them. Ninety five thousand dollars is enough that they might spend a couple years looking for you. If for no other reason but to make an example of you.”

The kid sniffs, wipes the back of his hand underneath his nose. “I’m not worried. I know some people too.” He grins. A mouthful of yellow teeth.

“How nice for you.” Eames reaches forward to snatch another olive only to find the bowl empty. He leans back in his chair and slides his hands into his pockets. “And how quickly would these friends of yours be able to get you out of the country without Mogilevich finding out?”

The kid looks over Eames’ shoulders. His eyes shift back and forth to take in the restaurant patrons sitting behind him. “What makes you think he knows where I am?”

“Well. I’m sure he knows what you’ve done. And if he’s smart, which he is, he’s been keeping an eye on the friends and family members of the people you’ve killed. Shame you didn’t even make enough from that batch to settle your debt with him.”

The kid grumbles, “I would’ve. If Miike hadn’t gypped me.”

“Miike underpaid you for a poisonous compound,” Eames says. “How rude of him.”

Eames wasn’t certain how this meeting was going to play out until just now. He realizes that this is kid is neither malicious nor stupid. He’s willful and arrogant. He shouldn’t be working in a business where people work in teams and depend so much on each other, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to be executed.

Eames reaches his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, thin book bound in blue leather. He places in the middle of the table and covers it with his hand.

The kid looks down at it, and his eyes widen when he recognizes the familiar shade of blue peeking out from between Eames’ fingers. He doesn’t look away from it when he asks, “Is that for me?” His gaze is heavy and covetous.

Eames slides the passport closer to his own chest, just out of the kid’s reach. “Don’t go back to the hotel. Take a cab to the airport. Get on the first flight to the States that has an open seat. If you can’t find one that leaves in the next twelve hours, find a flight to Heathrow or de Gaulle. You should be able to find several connecting flights there.”

The kid bites his lower lip, his canines creating halos of white in the pink flesh. “I don’t have enough money for a plane ticket.”

“Ah, yes. I almost forgot.” Eames reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills, American green. He tucks the money into the passport and slides it across the table.

The kid regards it silently for a couple moments. “There’s a catch, right?”

“Oh, of course.” Eames leans his elbows on the table and bows his head, says lowly, “The catch is that you stay the fuck away from me and the people that I care about. Go back to Arizona, and get a job at McDonald’s. Set up a meth lab for all I care. At least your customers will know that what they’re buying will kill them.”

The kid squints at Eames. “The people you care about? I thought that men like you didn’t care about anyone but yourselves.”

Eames folds his hands in front of him on the table, stares down at them and considers his words carefully. “One of the people you killed, her name was Nara. She was twenty-nine. Had a husband and a four-year-old girl. She was one of the first people I met when I left SAS. I taught her how to forge.” Eames looks up and is pleased to see the lines around the kid’s eyes and mouth folding in. He continues, “Another was a man named Albert Gormsen. Fifty-eight years old. Been dreaming for longer than you’ve been alive-”

“I know him,” the kid says.

“Do you?”

“Yeah. He was a chemist, right?”

“Yes. He was a chemist. And now he’s dead.” Eames leans back in his chair. “Would you like me to go on?”

“No.” The kid shakes his head. “No.” He fiddles his fingers on the table, stares across it at the passport. “You’re gonna be tracking that, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

The kid nods and continues to stare at the passport without picking it up, as if he’s waiting for permission.

Eames sighs, stands up and tosses a handful of euros on the table. He picks up the passport with one hand, grabs one of the kid’s hands with the other and folds the two of them into each other. “You know, when someone helps you get away with your life intact, the polite thing to do is to say ‘thank you’.”

The kid opens his mouth to say something, but Eames walks away. He doesn’t want to hear it.

~

A few hours later, Eames is sitting in a sprawling restaurant in the Plaka. He eyes the pastichio sitting in front of another patron and wonders if he made the wrong decision. Perhaps he can order that in addition to his lamb souvlaki. He’s starving. The only thing he had to eat today was three olives.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out and presses it to his ear, not bothering to check the number. As is his practice, Eames waits for the caller to speak first. After a moment, a deep voice says in heavily-accented English. “Mr. Eames. It is your lucky day. Not every man can say that Mr. Mogilevich owes him a favor.”

Eames slides his hand into his pocket to rub his fingers over his poker chip. “Is he dead?”

“Not yet,” the voice says obliquely.

Eames knows exactly what that means. “He went back to his hotel, didn’t he?”

“That is where we found him.”

Eames pulls the bottom of the phone away from his mouth so that he can let out a deep breath without the man on the other end hearing it. “Tell Mr. Mogilevich that he can keep his favors. Because I didn’t do him any. I gave the kid a chance.”

“But you didn’t stand in our way. And for that, my employer thanks you.” With a click the man on the other end is gone.

Eames pockets his phone, pushes his chair back from the table and walks out of the restaurant. He’s suddenly not hungry.

~

Guilt is a word too weighted with Catholic meaning to describe what Eames feels. He would more accurately describe it as an imbalance. A tilting of some cosmic part of him that, by its very nature, is supposed to stay level.

On his way back to the hotel, Eames walks by a street performer. He’s covered in gold paint and holding a giant blue and green paper mache sphere on his shoulders. Eames recognizes the role immediately: Atlas.

Eames stands in front of the performer and chuckles. “Look at that. A living metaphor. It’s not every day you see one of those.”

The performer looks up at Eames from underneath his gold eyelids and smiles.

Eames smiles back and nods. He tosses a couple euros into the performer’s open suitcase and continues on down the street.


End file.
